


A Difficult Relationship

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bickering, Dialogue Heavy, Established Relationship, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mentions of other Sherlock characters, Pets, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sibling Incest, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22736335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft have become a couple after Sherrinford. They love each other, but being together is not easy.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 59
Kudos: 73





	1. Challenges

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).



“ _You said you would be at home tonight so I turned all cases down. What am I supposed to do now while you’re playing nanny for the stupid PM?”_

Mycroft, holding the phone in his slightly cramping hand, presses his lips together for a moment before he quietly says, “I didn’t ask for being included in this, Sherlock. I’ll be at home as soon as I can.”

“ _Great.”_

Mycroft listens to the dead line for a couple of seconds before he sighs deeply.

*****

“What were you thinking? You’re not twenty anymore. You can’t keep up with two rowdies half your age!” All the blood on the beloved face… One more scar. Does he wear them like a badge? A badge for bravery? Or just recklessness?

“What should I have done – watch them beating the old man to death? Shame you weren’t with me, Mycroft. You could have hit them with your umbrella.”

“Most amusing.” He is not amused at all.

*****

“Can’t you switch your phone off for thirty bloody minutes perhaps?” Sherlock is close to ripping it out of his hand and throwing it against the wall.

“Right. As if you don’t want to be available twenty-four seven for your inspector.”

“This is sex, Mycroft. Or it would have been if you hadn’t killed the mood with your obsequious talking to this bloody moron...”

“Where are you going?”

“Outside, I need a cigarette.” _I need to get away from you now._

“You told me you’d quit.”

“I’m starting again now.”

*****

“I’d really wished I’d never have to stand next to a hospital bed again, little brother.”

“And yet – here we are. It’s my job, Mycroft. These things happen. And it’s no big deal anyway.”

“One day I’ll be standing next to a stretcher of a different kind.” _And don't you know I will_ _ **die**_ _then, too?_

“I’m sorry but I had to...”

“I know. Sleep tight. I’ll be back in the morning.” As they are alone, he dares to kiss Sherlock's cheek.

*****

“How was Eurus?”

“You shouldn’t have to ask. I'm sure you were watching us all the time.”

“What do you expect? She is dangerous.”

“Yes, and she is our sister.” Who still hasn’t spoken a single word since their meeting after her game. Since she told him where to find John. One thing that she did right. This and their parents’ desperation have made Sherlock go to Sherrinford two times a week. During work hours, so it doesn't take any time away from him and Mycroft. But he knows that Mycroft hates her. He does understand that but he disapproves of being looked at like this. Like he is… an idiot. “You would be happier if she had let John drown in this well, wouldn’t you?” escapes his mouth before he can stop it, knowing it was a passive-aggressive and completely unfair thing to say.

The hurt on Mycroft's face is like a punch to the gut. His brother presses his lips together before he gets up and stalks out of the room.

Sherlock feels like the biggest moron on earth. He gives him a couple of minutes before he follows him. He finds him on the veranda. Slings his arms around his waist from behind and kisses his neck. “I'm sorry, Mycroft.”

Mycroft only nods but he puts his hands on Sherlock's.

“I won't go there again if you…”

“No. I won't stand between you and your sister.”

 _Your_ sister… Sherlock doesn’t answer. He simply holds Mycroft tighter, and finally, Mycroft slumps into his embrace.

*****

“Why didn’t you wake me up?!”

“You were sleeping so peacefully. You needed your rest.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Wasted time. Just because you were not able to leave this stupid party in time...”

No. It wasn’t wasted time. It was a detective, constantly on the run, who finally found some rest. Mycroft held him close all night. Just content that he was here with him. “We will meet again this evening, little brother.”

“Yeah. If nothing more important comes up.” Sherlock sips at the tea that Mycroft has brought him, his face showing how upset he is.

Mycroft would have loved to pull him in but he leaves him alone – a Sherlock in this mood is hardly prone to cuddle.

*****

They make love until they are both feeling as if they were becoming one person.

They fight until they both think they can’t endure the other one for a minute longer.

They make up – and out – until they are both sore for days.

*****

“Be honest with me, Sherlock. Do you want to break this up? Does it only make you unhappy?” The words get almost stuck in his throat. But he has to say them.

“No! Do you?”

“No, dear. Come here.”

“I love you, you know?” Sherlock nuzzles his face against his brother’s cheek, his arms tightly around his waist.

“I know, and I love you. Sorry.” Mycroft presses him close and kisses his hair. He is feeling relieved. But he knows they need to break this circle of mutual hurt so it won’t break their love.

But… how?

*****

“We don’t have time for your case, Mycroft. Do yourself a favour and dome some legwork for a change.”

John grins and Sherlock gives his brother a contemptuous look.

Mycroft sighs and holds out the folder, rolling his eyes at him.

Everything to keep up the façade. Sherlock hates it. So does Mycroft, but they don't have a choice.

*****

It’s nothing like the usual stuff that drives couples crazy. Both of them are capable of cleaning up behind themselves. There is no argument about the dishes. No open toothpaste tube to row about. They don’t even have a routine that could make them get upset about the other one.

It’s all happening in the dark, most of the time literally.

Dark, stolen moments. It’s all they have.

Nobody may know and it eats at them – more at Sherlock with all his friends, naturally.

*****

It’s not the little things that are slowly bringing them apart. It’s just their completely different life styles. The danger of Sherlock's job. The unnerving requirements of Mycroft’s.

Two men who live for their professions. They make them proud, they define them. But the other one’s job is a constant source of annoyance, as the differences of their professions are exposing their differences in character and view at life.

*****

They have always had a difficult relationship. This hasn’t miraculously disappeared by adding another dimension to it – a scandalous one, a forbidden one. None of them feels guilty about it as it’s nobody else’s business. Or that’s how they feel it should be. Unfortunately, law and morals say something else.

The pressure never ceases.

*****

They can talk about so many things. Philosophy. Mathematical problems hardly anyone would understand a word about. They sometimes practice rare languages with each other. They are able to challenge each other intellectually in most exciting ways.

They argue. They say what they don't appreciate about the other one’s behaviour. But there is a level of emotion that is like a foreign language to them. Neither of them dares to learn it.

*****

Their sex is breathtaking. When they link their hands afterwards, both floating on their post-orgasmic bliss, it’s like they are merging.

When Sherlock feels offended by his brother’s words, he flees to another room in Mycroft's house. He has to be on his own for a while. Mycroft just sits still. Usually Sherlock leaves his house soon after joining him again and kissing him senseless. Nothing ever gets solved. It’s like the worst thing for Detective Sherlock – an unsolvable case.

*****

They can be silent with each other. Sometimes, when Sherlock can be at Mycroft's place for a full afternoon or evening, usually at the weekend, he plays the violin while Mycroft is listening with a book on his knees. Sometimes he is reading while Sherlock is lying with his head on his thighs, and Mycroft's long fingers are gently caressing Sherlock's hair while he’s turning a page.

These moments feel like bliss and peace.

*****

There are moments of lightness and laughter. There are glistening eyes and smiles filled with deep affection.

There is love.

There is a deep, all-encompassing love.

A love that can’t dare speak its name.

*****

It is one of the biggest problems, Sherlock knows. The secrecy, the lies, the stolen moments.

When it happened, John had already been about to move back into Baker Street with Rosie. Mrs Hudson had let an additional room added to the space upstairs.

There was no way to say he doesn’t want that anymore.

He loves Rosie. He and John are good again. It required apologies and openness about the deep crack in their friendship and the violence. Now they are friends again. Not like before. They can never be those men again. But they still like each other and have learned to trust each other again.

But John is this part of Sherlock's life. Mycroft is the other one. They are opposite poles, even more so than Sherlock and Mycroft are in some ways. There is no way to trust John with this knowledge.

He thinks that Mrs Hudson with all her experience could offer advice to him. It still feels so new to him. So tremendously challenging. Like walking on very thin ice. Sometimes it feels like being on another planet. She would know. But she can’t stand his brother.

Molly is still his friend. And even though she says hearing the three words they have forced out of each other, only for very different reasons, has freed her, he knows she still wants to be with him.

He doesn’t forget Lestrade’s first name anymore. He knows that Greg likes him. And he knows that he can count on him in many ways. But he’s the police.

There is nobody they can trust with this secret. Sherlock would like to think they would accept it and support them. But they are all normal people, some with unusual lives, yes, but deep inside, they are all conventional to different degrees. And he wouldn’t dare tell any of them.

Like he has said years ago under different circumstances – there is no point in a second attempt.

*****

Sometimes they are so close Mycroft feels he must be hallucinating. There can’t be so much love between them. He is beyond grateful for these moments.

And then they are at each other’s throats, just like they have been before everything changed, and nothing changed. They are still them. They are still brothers. There is rivalry. There are all those old wounds. They have tried to heal them, in their own peculiar ways. But the scars will never disappear, just like the deep scars on Sherlock's body. The scars that will always remind Mycroft of the fact that his brother risked and almost lost his life too many times for people named Watson and will still never let go of the doctor.

So much history between them. Old scores, resentments. Lies. Insults. Sherlock drugging him. Pushing him against the wall. All forgiven? Hopefully, but certainly not forgotten. _The East Wind. How’s the diet?_

He loves Sherlock. More than anything. And he can’t let their love die from… reality. But he doesn’t have a clue how to make it better.


	2. Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's fears come true - Sherlock gets hurt seriously.

Mycroft rubs his face with two long fingers. A throbbing headache is spreading beneath his temples. The PM is rambling on and on, interrupted every few sentences by an exasperated Lady Smallwood. Sir Edwin is looking as if he wants to flee the next moment.

The entire day has been torture. Problems, threats, scandals. And the knowledge that Sherlock is royally upset because he can’t see him for dinner. He had promised it. Determined to make it happen. Valentine’s Day. Who knew Sherlock cares about these mundane goldfish things? He made the mistake to voice this. Sherlock looked at him as if he wanted to jump into his face.

He is so goddamn bad at this. Facing a furious Sherlock. Meeting his demands if they seem unreasonable to him. Are they really? No. He knows that they are not. But when he feels defensive, he shuts down. Closes his shields. And it makes Sherlock only more angry.

The pressure at work doesn’t make it any easier. It is getting to him. Sometimes he can feel a stinging pull in his chest. When he once reached up to touch, he caught Anthea’s horrified look. He never mentions it to Sherlock. He can imagine how his brother would react…

Sherlock just doesn’t understand his obligations. He can’t just go home at four and leave it for the day.

He could, though. But he never does it. When he looks into a mirror, he sees an old man. When he is with Sherlock, loving him, he feels young again. But there will be nothing of this tonight.

The PM addresses him now, in his nagging tone, and he feels his eyelids twitching. He is annoyed beyond words. It gets harder and harder to show some false respect to this moron. To all the morons he is forced to deal with, actually.

In the middle of a cumbersome explanation of something that Mycroft has understood five minutes ago, he hears a sharp knock and then Anthea bursts into the meeting room. He has left his phone with her – not the one he uses for texting with Sherlock, naturally. She only interrupts when something important has happened – and he can see at once it has nothing to do with his work.

“Miss...” The PM stops, failing to remember Anthea’s last name even though he’s known her for three years. “This is most...”

Anthea doesn’t even look at him. “Sir. Please, come.”

Mycroft is up already. All blood has left his face but he keeps the question to himself until he is out of the room and alone with his PA after a quick apology, thrown at an angry Prime Minister. “How bad is it?”

“He’s in a coma,” Anthea says, her eyes glistening with tears. “A heavy blow to the head during a case as it seems.”

“St. Bart’s?” he manages to rasp out.

“Yes. The car is ready.”

He nods a thanks and hurries towards the exit after taking his phone from her hands.

_Sherlock… Don’t you dare to die..._

_*****_

More than an hour passes until he is alone with his brother – a motionless figure in a large bed. His face is so pale that it resembles the sheets. And the bandage around his forehead. His beautiful eyes are closed. His cheekbones seem to stick out more than ever.

When he arrived in Sherlock's third home, well, maybe the forth after the Yard, he was welcomed by an openly crying Molly Hooper and a desperate Detective Inspector Lestrade, who looks as if he had aged ten years since the last time Mycroft had seen him. The welcome committee was completed by a doctor.

He listened to the explanations about a case gone wrong. The suspect is in prison. Uninjured. The doctor showered him with medical expressions and pulled up several MRI images of Sherlock's brain. From what Mycroft understood, his brother's brain had swollen from a massive blow. His prognosis is uncertain, although fortunately there doesn't seem to be any bleeding in the brain. Sherlock could wake up anytime. Or in two years. He could die. Or stay in a coma forever. He could regain consciousness, having suffered no lasting damage at all. Or not being able to bind his shoes. Molly Hooper just kept crying, and if he had been able to feel anything but fear and worry, he would have wanted to punch her.

Now he is sitting next to Sherlock's bed; the beeping of the monitors are the only noise apart from the muffled steps and voices outside the room.

His large hand is engulfing Sherlock's right one, which is not attached to the machines. It feels cold and it is hard not to fear the worst.

“You can’t leave me, Sherlock,” he says quietly. “Not going to happen. I’m sure you think I’ll blame you now. Admonish you. What good would it do? You will do it again anyway. Just come back.”

His eyes are burning with unshed tears.

*****

He has a second bed put into the room. He only goes home to get clothes and other items he needs. And a fresh suit for Sherlock gets brought by Mrs Hudson – for when he can leave the hospital. Mycroft supposes that it her way to express her hope that his brother will fully recover. Nonetheless she cries around his neck and he awkwardly pats her back.

John Watson shows up as well, naturally. He stares down on Sherlock, stone-faced. He has not been with him at the crime scene. He has hardly joined Sherlock in solving cases for the past few months. With a daughter to look at and a job in a clinic, he doesn’t have much time for adventure. It shows in his face. There is more than worry about Sherlock in his eyes.

Mycroft only vaguely registers this. He talks to them when he must but he hardly recognises his own voice. They all came. Molly Hooper, of course, unable to stop weeping. Angelo, bringing food that Sherlock cannot eat. And of course DI Lestrade, looking more gaunt and guilty with each time he drops by.

Mycroft doesn’t even know how he is looking. He doesn’t even glance at the mirror when he shaves.

And of course he doesn’t go to work.

*****

Three days have passed and the doctor says that the swelling of Sherlock's brain is starting to recede. He can wake up now anytime. But nobody can say in which state. And there is still the possibility that he never comes back.

Mycroft keeps him company all day. Reads to him. Tells him about their childhood. About all the things they will share with each other as soon as Sherlock is healthy again. And he hopes that they will do each and every one of them.

*****

On the fourth day, in the early morning, his throat feeling sore from talking to Sherlock, he scrolls through his phone. A terror attack once more, in the heart of London. And he looks at his texts and listens to his voice mail for the first time.

Their parents. Desperate and asking for news. He assumes that Anthea has informed them. Or they read it in the papers. He just hopes they won’t come. He knows he has to call them back. Later.

The PM. Screaming at him to come back. Sending messages that are insulting to say the least.

He realises that he is not surprised at all. Or feeling guilty. All he feels is exhaustion. And worry, of course. He reaches out to touch Sherlock's cool arm as if it was a lifeline. His brother has not woken up. But he has not died, either. And his results have gotten better with every day.

He has reason to hope. Everything else can go to hell.

*****

“Why are you even here? You never cared about him. And he can’t stand you.”

Mycroft closes his eyes. He really doesn’t need that. “I said it before. I will always be there for him.”

John snorts. “Yeah. You said that after sending him away, just getting him back because of Moriarty. I saw it in his eyes, Mycroft. He was sure he would never come back.”

Does this imbecile really think he would have let Sherlock die in Eastern Europe? Of course he wouldn’t have. But yes. He was very angry at Sherlock at this point. Determined to teach him a lesson. But if push had come to shove, he would have gotten him out.

Strange. Sherlock had never asked him about that. Did his brother seriously believe as well that Mycroft had given up on him? Sent him on a lethal mission?

“Thought you didn’t have anything to say to this.” John gives him a look full of contempt.

“And where were _you_ when he got injured?” Mycroft unwisely shoots back.

“I took care of my girl! You know – the one that doesn’t have a mother anymore because of him.”

So that’s how it is. This is John Watson’s forgiveness. “I believe it was your wife’s decision to take the bullet for him,” he says in a caustic tone.

John looks at him as if he’s close to punching him. “That wouldn’t have happened if he had kept his mouth shut!”

“So you think he deserves this, right?” Mycroft gestures at the bed.

John sighs. “No. Of course not. It’s hard for me.”

 _You have no idea how hard it is for_ me _…_

*****

Mycroft can’t believe his eyes. “Sir. With all due respect. You shouldn’t have come here.”

“Oh, that’s great. How long haven’t you been at work?”

Mycroft forces himself to keep calm. “I took two weeks off. I am allowed to do this, you know?”

“But there was a terror attack! If you had been here, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Sir. I’m forty-six years old. One day I’ll retire and what then? I’ve built up the Secret Service. There are other people who...”

“They are not nearly as good as you!”

“This is not my problem.”

“You are walking on thin ice, Holmes!”

Mycroft can’t help it. He chuckles. And falls onto his chair when the politician storms out of the room. He buries his face in his hands.

*****

Sherlock blinks. His eyes feel dry. And he feels like crying. He has heard what John has said to his brother. He has heard the outburst of the PM. Until this very moment, he wasn’t able to make himself heard. “Mycroft...” he mumbles, his voice sounding weird to his own ears. But at least he can speak again. Doesn’t have to lie here like a piece of meat anymore, listening to everything that’s going on around him but being unable to open his eyes and express himself.

His hand gets taken at once. Damp kisses are pressed onto it. “Little brother. Oh God...”

“Mycroft…” His throat feels like sandpaper.

“Shhh. Let me give you some ice chips.”

Sherlock lets them melt in his mouth, being watched by concerned blue eyes. His throat feels less sore soon. “My brain’s fine,” he soothes his lover, sensing his fears. “Just feeling awful.” Dizzy, tired. Will he ever be able to solve a case again? Somehow he doesn’t care all that much about that...

“You’ll be better. Very soon. Back on the streets to chase criminals.” Mycroft smiles but Sherlock sees the pain in his eyes. Sees the crumpled clothes, the stubble on his cheeks.

How much his brother must have worried about him. “Let me die, Mycroft,” he rasps out. He is so tired of all this.

His brother gasps in shock. “Sherlock! Never say something like this to me again!” But then he tilts his head. “Oh. You mean like last time... No, little brother...”

Of course not… Sherlock bites his lip. How stupid of him… Eloping? Really? He shouldn't have bothered his brother with such a suggestion.

But then Mycroft continues. “Not like this. Not now. Plans must be made.” He shakes his head. “And perhaps it is not necessary at all. We must talk about this when you feel better.”

Sherlock's heart feels lighter than it has for months. He can see that Mycroft has understood. And that he is willing to change things. He knows that he can’t go on like this. He feels completely shattered. And to hear John’s nasty words, and the PM getting at his brother’s throat… “Promise me, brother...”

“Whatever you want.” Mycroft squeezes his hand gently.

He has made his brother suffer. Directly and indirectly. He doesn’t want that anymore. He is willing to give up everything. And he can’t lose Mycroft. “Promise me that you’ll never leave me.”

“That’s an easy promise.”

Sherlock manages a smile and he closes his eyes when Mycroft puts his warm hand onto his cheek. “And now go home and sleep.”

“I won’t leave you alone.”

“That was an order...” Sherlock feels that he will fall asleep again very soon.

“Okay. Just for a couple of hours. And I’ll send the neuro-intensivist in.”

“Do that. I love you.”

“Oh, Sherlock. You have no idea how much I love you.”

But Sherlock does. And despite feeling as if he’d been hit by a bus, he is happy.


	3. Solution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have found the perfect compromise.

“I still can’t believe it. You can’t just leave.”

Sherlock regards John calmly. “I can, though.” They had this discussion before. Several times. He had it with Molly, too. She was crying every time. It didn’t help to ease the headaches that have still been plaguing him.

John raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Yeah, sure. You’ve been through quite some shit. Glad you’re back on your feet, believe me. But…” He shakes his head. “Can’t believe you’re just dropping it all.”

“I’ll be checking my emails regularly. Lestrade will mail me crime scene pictures and everything I’ll need to help him.” In fact, Lestrade has taken his decision very well. Hugged him, even. “And we’ll stay in contact as well,” he promises.

“But that’s not the same! What about Rosie?”

This is a low blow. Sherlock knows it’s one of the biggest sacrifices. He won’t see her grow up. “I’ll visit London a few times a year,” he promises even though he has no idea if he will actually do it.

The doctor shakes his head. “Yeah. You say that now. Once you’ve started travelling the world, you’ll forget about your friends.”

Sherlock bites his lip to not say something caustic to this. John doesn’t know that he heard what he said to Mycroft. He has not forgiven him for Mary’s death, even though he said he had. And Sherlock does understand it. But he has realised that he was naive to believe that they could move on; not exactly as if nothing had happened but as friends who trust each other. What if he did something stupid again and endangered Rosie? He can imagine John’s reaction. And he can very well imagine Mycroft's reaction to this… It is better for John when he disappears from his life. Better for _him_ , too, naturally.

“So where will you go first, all alone?” John asks.

Sherlock has told all his friends that he wants to see the world. On his own. In fact, he has only one destination to go to. A house in South France. Their house. Their new home. It has been renovated during the past few weeks. And he won’t go there alone. In fact, Mycroft has gone there yesterday. Sherlock can’t wait to join him.

“Australia,” he lies.

John nods. “You know, if you change your mind… I know you’re giving up the flat but you can stay in mine then.”

Sherlock feels touched. “Thank you, John. I appreciate your offer.” Mrs Hudson cried hot tears when he told her that he’s going to move out. The other big sacrifice. He will miss her very much. But she understood, and Sherlock wonders if she hadn’t understood _everything_.

The doctor gives him an incredibly sad look. “I know you’ll never come back.”

And Sherlock thinks that he will, hopefully, not. It is a huge step but he is willing to make it.

*****

Holding a glass in his hand, Mycroft sits down in his new armchair. It feels, well, new. He’ll get used to it.

Everything is ready. It’s a thirty-year-old house but it is in great shape now. The two bathrooms have been renovated completely. A large shower cubicle in one of them. An equally large tub in the other one. Two generous bedrooms with king sized beds. They will of course share one. But it is better to have a spare one just in case they row. Which will most likely happen from time to time. Neither of them is a fool. A lot has changed but they are still themselves.

And Mycroft will still be working for the government – but in a counselling position only. He will still get reports every day to connect the dots. But there won’t be any meetings, naturally. He doesn’t plan to return to London. Only as a visitor, maybe. Probably not even that.

It’s the compromise they’ve found. Nothing as spectacular as faking their deaths. Mycroft has bought the house under an alias name though, and they will also use fake identities – getting them has been an easy task for him. Neither of them expects to have much contact with the locals but if anyone asked about their names, they would introduce themselves as ‘Mark Hunter’ and ‘Scott Hunter’. Husbands, not brothers. Nobody from their old lives will be told where they are. Their phone numbers are history. They will only be reachable via email. No chance to track them down – Mycroft knows how to do that.

The PM exploded when Mycroft told him about his decision. But Mycroft stayed calm, giving him two alternatives – going on working under his conditions or not at all. As expected, the man eventually gave in, grumbling and cursing, but he did. Mycroft will earn less money of course but he doesn’t need it. After all those years in his unique position, he has put aside about four million pounds. His money is on a Cayman Island account now, also under their new names.

Their groceries will be delivered from a shop near La Lavandou. They will have to change their appearances of course, well, at least Sherlock does. Mycroft has never been known to the public. But he doubts very much that he will go on wearing three-piece-suits. Perhaps he will grow a neat beard. Sherlock said that he would like that. His brother, and husband now, officially, will try out a goatee. And won’t grow back his curls. Which is a pity. Mycroft did love to card his fingers through them. But he will get used to it. To everything.

The house is as silent as his old one, which has been sold already. There are no neighbours in a three kilometre radius. But the house won’t stay that silent. They will get two dogs from a shelter. Maybe three. Sherlock has always wanted one, and his wish has only grown stronger after he has realised that Redbeard had not been a dog. And Mycroft thinks that he would like some furry friends now that he has lots of spare time. Still doing something useful but without the pressure of a full-time occupation. The same goes for Sherlock – giving advice to the police without the danger of getting hurt.

Will they get along? Won’t his brother get bored when he can’t chase criminals directly? Will he suffer because he’s missing his friends? Will he resent Mycroft for this? But it was actually Sherlock's idea to come here. To leave it all behind.

Their parents are a problem. The contact with them has been rare anyway; neither he nor Sherlock has ever gotten on with them very well, even in their childhood. And the relationship has never fully recovered from the Eurus-disaster. He did tell them he has moved to France but he was very vague with the location. Sherlock told them about his fictional travelling. But he can’t use this excuse forever. Perhaps they will visit them for Christmas next year. After all, their parents live far away enough from London and are not in contact with Sherlock's friends. And they won’t live forever.

They will have to see. It’s not important now. They have to settle down here. Get used to a completely different lifestyle. Learn each other again.

Mycroft looks around in their new home. He can hear the birds singing through the open window. The house is warm and homely. Soon Sherlock will be here.

He sips at the lemon-water in his glass and smiles.

*****

After standing together in a tight embrace, feeling and sniffing each other, kissing tenderly, Mycroft pats Sherlock's arm. “Come, sit down with me, brother mine.”

Sherlock smiles. “I’m fine. No invalid, Mycroft.”

“Sure, but it was quite the way. And you do look a bit pale around the nose.”

Sherlock has almost fully recovered from his injury. But he does still feel tired after a bit of exertion, and travelling was, despite just sitting around, rather exhausting. Sometimes he’s had problems concentrating, too. But he is feeling better with every day and now that he is here, now that it is all done and they are together, he is sure that he will be absolutely fine soon. A sentimental thought, certainly. But true nonetheless.

He does sit down on their large couch though, gratefully accepting a drink, consisting of mineral water, orange juice, small pieces of ginger and a slice of lemon. “Tastes fine,” he says, smiling at his brother – it still feels a bit weird to think of him as his husband. They did not exactly have a wedding, just a piece of paper that says they were officially married. But Sherlock assumes they will still have a bit of a celebration. No hurry though. For now, he is just happy to be with his man.

Mycroft smiles back. “I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since I’ve come here,” he confesses, seriously, then. “I drank way too much when you were in the hospital. And before, actually...”

Sherlock gives him a wry grin. “Yeah. Guess I gave you enough reason to get pissed all the time...”

“Language, little brother.” Mycroft winks at him. “It wasn’t you. It was everything.”

And not everything has changed. Perhaps Mycroft isn’t the British Government anymore (even though he would have always denied to be anything like this) but he still works for the kingdom. And if a terror threat arises, Sherlock assumes they will reach out to him. And he? He will still solve cases for the Met. But they have discussed their rules and boundaries, and really – as nobody can reach them via phone and they won’t go back to London to face their old reality, it should be fine. They do have new mobile phones of course – but nobody has their numbers. Will that work? Won’t Mycroft get lured by the power he has chosen to give up? Will Sherlock be content with looking at photographs and missing out the thrill of the chase?

One thing is clear – their compromises, which ensure that they won’t get bored and that they don’t have to give up everything, also mean that they could go back anytime. They are not dead to the world. They have damaged some bridges, certainly, but they didn’t burn them. If things go wrong, there will be a way back.

But it won’t. Sherlock won’t have it. Mycroft won’t, either. They have not come here to fail. They have come here to heal. And to love.

Sherlock pats Mycroft's knee after downing the rest of his drink. “This was very refreshing. And now take me to bed, husband.”

“In the middle of the day?!” Mycroft gasps, his eyes sparkling.

“Well, I do like to see whom I’m fucking with.”

“Language!”

Sherlock laughs and Mycroft chuckles, and they kiss again, and it just all feels right.

*****

Mycroft pointedly ignores Sherlock's indulgent smile while he arranges him on the bed, stuffing a pillow behind his head, making sure he’s as comfortable as possible. He has undressed him without haste, batting his hands away when Sherlock fumbled with his clothing. He will undo them in his own time.

Since the attack, they have not done a lot. Or even met a lot. When Sherlock came back from the hospital, weak on his knees, his friends all fussed about him. Hardly ever left him alone. Mycroft dropped by when there was an opportunity. They once bickered in the presence of John Watson. Everything to not cause suspicion.

With Sherlock being away, Mycroft would have had no reason to contact John or Lestrade. So they won’t miss him. But eventually, they might find out that he is gone, too. If they end up hunting him down in Whitehall, Anthea will tell them he is taking a longer hiatus due to difficulties with the PM and being fed up with the stress in general. He hopes that will be good enough. But in fact, he doesn’t believe that anyone would even consider that he and Sherlock are together. Sherlock will send them fake reports from his ‘travels’ – yet another funny task to keep him occupied. And even if they suspect anything, they won’t be able to prove it. Who would want this anyway? Sherlock has left their lives but without harsh words or accusations, just telling them that he can’t cope with any more injuries. John certainly understood this the best. As it had been his wife who had almost killed Sherlock not that long ago. Sherlock will not abandon them completely.

Will he still miss being around them? Yes. Certainly. But at least he won’t have to miss _him_ anymore, and apparently, in the end it seems that he _is_ more important to Sherlock than his friends.

Mycroft is satisfied that his lover has a safe, comfortable position. “No moving.” Finally he undresses as well. There is not that much to take off – a casual white shirt, khaki coloured slacks. No arm garters, no waistcoats. He has almost felt naked before getting actually naked. But he knows that he can get used to this.

Sherlock rolls his eyes but he is smiling. “You know – I’ll have to. Sex without moving doesn’t work.”

“It does, when I say it does. You know – I’m the smart one.” He can’t believe how often he has lorded his alleged greater intelligence over Sherlock. Now he is simply joking, and he knows that Sherlock is well aware of it.

A playful sigh is his answer. “Well, then, smart arse, I mean, smart _one_. Do your worst.”

“You haven’t learned any manners since we last met, you menace.” He lies down next to his brother.

Sherlock giggles. “Did you expect this? Then you can’t be very smart after all.”

“Maybe not. But I’m in love.”

Sherlock smiles in a way that makes his heart jump. He reaches out to touch Mycroft's cheek. “Well, this excuses everything. And you know what?”

Mycroft brushes a kiss onto his soft lips. “Tell me.”

“I’m in love with you, too.”

“Then, my dear new husband, we should absolutely do _this_...” And Mycroft proceeds to take him apart.

*****

He ends up almost not moving indeed. Just enjoying. Keeping his eyes closed, he lets himself be showered with kisses, gentle caresses, teasing, nibbling and all the other treats of Mycroft's vast repertoire of spoiling-Sherlock. Hot breath on his skin, kittenish licks at his nipples, a strong hand stroking up and down his shaft – it almost feels unreal.

They’ve had sex so many times but it’s like the very first time. Husbands. No need to hide anymore. A house of their own. A future of undisturbed love that nobody will endanger anymore. And Sherlock feels deep inside that they have made the right decision. He is not going to miss running the streets of London. They can travel if they want. New York for example – a place he definitely wants to see. But they are in no hurry. Actually, their new home reminds him of Musgrave, the place that he had chosen to forget and can remember now in full detail. Surrounded by an equally beautiful nature. Peaceful. Clean. Innocent.

He has not even explored the house yet. He has not seen it for real before coming here today. So much to discover. Turn it into a real home. Get the dogs they have spoken about. Have a real life.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

He opens his eyes to meet his brother’s concerned look, and he realises that there are tears running down his cheeks. A part of him feels embarrassed. The other part welcomes it – a true, deeply emotional reaction. “Sorry, brother mine,” he says, smiling. “I’m just too happy.”

The smile that answers this statement makes him reach out to cup his brother’s cheek. And in this moment he is absolutely sure that Mycroft is not going to miss sitting in the centre of power, dining with the Queen and giving orders of national importance. He can see that Mycroft is every bit as happy as he is. “This is going to be awesome,” he states.

“Yes, little brother. Without a doubt.”

“It’s like a full circle,” Sherlock muses. “Being in a home in the middle of nowhere. No dirty streets, no cars. It’s gorgeous.”

Mycroft looks at him in wonder, and Sherlock knows that he thinks ‘And this from the city boy who knows London inside out.’ But Little Sherlock, Yellowbeard the Pirate, loved being in such an environment, loved climbing trees and swimming in the lake. He is too old to climb trees but there is a lake nearby, belonging to their property. There is no Redbeard alias Victor here. No faithful – or maybe not so faithful – blogger. Just Mycroft. The only one he needs.

He doesn’t say it, knowing that his eyes are telling his man all he needs to know. And Mycroft kisses him, fiercely, and they snog until they are breathless. “Suck my cock, now, if you could be so kind,” Sherlock demands, and Mycroft laughs a little, pinching his nose, before he gets to work.

*****

Mycroft takes Sherlock's hot, heavy cock between his lips, playfully teasing the slippery head with the tip of his tongue. His fingers form a circle on the base, squeezing it and holding it in place.

Sherlock moans quietly, and Mycroft takes him deeper, letting his tongue swirl around the engorged head. Salty droplets are pearling onto his tongue. So responsive, his beautiful little brother.

So alive. So _here._ So happy.

They will row again. It is inevitable. But he hopes, and is pretty sure, that their arguments will have lost the caustic undertones. They will find their rhythm. And they will both have their work to do, no time for getting bored. He wants them to be outside often. Having picnics with good wine and simple sandwiches. Making love on a thick, soft blanket. After what Sherlock has just told him, he is certain that his brother will enjoy this.

He is definitely enjoying himself now, too. As Mycroft is working his long prick with his deft lips and fingers, he is breathing fast, cursing quietly, and his mouth is forming a lovely ‘O’. Mycroft increases his efforts, longing to see him coming apart, but then Sherlock grabs his shoulder. “Give me yours, too.”

Mycroft hesitates. He is hard and his free hand has been sneaking to his groin to stroke himself. But is this a good idea?

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “My head’s fine, brother. And I didn’t ask you to sit on it. We’ll do this tomorrow...”

Mycroft chuckles. “You are...”

“...a totally lost cause, manner-wise, I know. Just dip your dick between my lips.”

“Producing porn poetry?”

Sherlock laughs and grabs his chin. “I want your cock in my mouth now. I’m hungry.” Mycroft winces and opens his mouth to apologise for not providing any food after the long journey but Sherlock huffs. “I was joking, brother. We can eat something when we’re finished here for now. If we ever get there.”

“Impatient boy.”

“I am and you love me.”

“That I do.” And Mycroft kisses him and then does as he’s told.

And soon the brothers Holmes and husbands Hunter devour each other, the air filled with slurping noises, and they have a little competition about who comes first, and Sherlock wins and Mycroft eagerly swallows him down, not complaining about unfair advantages. He succumbs to Sherlock’s greedy mouth soon enough, and before they get up to have a shower and a light meal together, they lie on their bed, arms tightly wrapped around each other.

 _This is bliss_ , Mycroft thinks when he presses a soft kiss on Sherlock’s temple, and he knows that his brother wholeheartedly agrees.


	4. Salvation

ConDetISR  condet_insemiretirement@conmail.com  22.36

_I need more data, Lestrade. Can't help you without full information. I need a video from the crime scene. Detailed pictures of the wounds. And ask the witness about the black car again._

Gregory Lestrade Gregory-Lestrade@met.co.uk 22.40

_Fine. I will have it done until tomorrow afternoon. Good night and thank you._

_xxx Greg_

Sherlock sighs. He can as well shut down his laptop and join his man in bed. Neither of his friends is available for a chat now and that’s just fine with him.

He strolls to the bathroom and has a pee. Without making light, he walks towards the bedroom and manages to not hurt a toe before sitting down on the mattress as carefully as he can after taking off his pants. Mycroft doesn’t even stir. He is sleeping, peacefully.

His eyes having gotten used to the dark, Sherlock regards him for a moment before he lies back and pulls the light blanket up.

It's not that easy to solve cases like this. Not seeing the body, no smells, no feeling for the atmosphere. Lestrade has to do better in future to make up for the impressions he cannot get. But Sherlock has solved a few cases already. If the police give him enough information, he can still be of help.

He and Mycroft have found a routine that works for both of them. After a day spent with making the house their home, doing housework, being outside, swimming or just walking, they cook dinner together. Mostly it is Mycroft cooking and Sherlock doing some minor chores like chopping vegetables. They live very healthily. After dinner, they cuddle up on the couch or go to the bedroom. On four out of five evenings, they make love. They do it during the day as well, when the mood strikes. It strikes pretty often. After this, they share a shower or a bath, and then Mycroft retreats to the bedroom to read a bit – he's had most of his books from his London house brought to their new home. He goes to sleep very early after having a glass of almond milk and a piece of chocolate.

Sherlock goes to their office and checks his emails. It is the only time of the day when he does so; they only exception being waiting for important information on an urgent case that harbours the threat of more people being killed. Mycroft doesn’t resent him for checking his incoming messages during the day then and he keeps it to a minimum. In the evenings, he works for an hour or two, and then he often exchanges emails with John or Molly. Even Mrs Hudson has gotten a laptop just for staying in contact. Very rarely he skypes with John, always going to a different part of the house or even outside, making sure he is sitting in the dark and very close to the laptop so nearly nothing of his environment is visible. If John finds that strange, he doesn’t say so at least. He has to lie about the location he is allegedly in. He does send fake pictures from time to time. Mycroft is very good at manipulating images and he loves to help out. Sherlock gets some photographs of Rosie in return. The conversations with John have gotten lighter again. If John still feels betrayed by him leaving, he doesn’t let it show. Molly's emails sound rather depressed. She's still not gotten over him. It does annoy him and he is quite sure that their contact will eventually break off. In the end, he likes her but mostly for being useful for him. He has always used her for one purpose or another. It’s what he did – manipulating people into doing what he needs to be done, if it’s spilling out truths they hadn't wanted to tell him or providing him with body parts of full corpses. It was not like this with John. And of course it isn’t with Mycroft.

He joins his brother in bed when everything is done and falls into a deep sleep. Mycroft gets up very early and quietly leaves the bed to take care of his morning hygiene and make tea. With a cup of Earl Grey, he occupies the office and uses his own laptop to look at his reports and search or ask for additional information that he needs to do his job properly. Anthea is always in the office just as early to provide the data. When she has her days off or is on vacation, her substitute, a man named Collin Carruthers, does the deed. Memorising the information and drawing conclusions requires a lot of concentration but Mycroft can do it undisturbed. Nobody pesters him with demands or stupid questions.

When he's finished, he makes breakfast. If Sherlock is up already, they eat together; sometimes Sherlock has even prepared toast and omelettes when Mycroft has finished his duties. When Sherlock is still asleep, Mycroft doesn’t wake him up. But he watches him for a while, smiling fondly at the man he loves.

It works very well. When they shut down the computers respectively, they shut out the world. It's just them. They don't see anyone. Very rarely do they meet people when they go a bit further away from their property, and they exchange a few friendly words in their perfect French, but usually the only one they see is the other one, and it's exactly as they like it. Everything they need is here. Well, almost everything.

“It's time to go to the shelter,” Sherlock says the next morning. They have a car, hardly used but always in shape, just in case of an emergency.

Mycroft smiles. “Yes. Let's do it later.”

The next moment he has a lapful of baby brother. “Later, yes. I've got a suggestion on how to pass the time until ‘later’.”

“Dear me,” Mycroft smirks.

“No. I'd say _fuck_ you. _‘Language’_ , I know.”

Mycroft squeezes his waist. “I think I'll stop admonishing you. It’s hopeless.”

“It is,” Sherlock agrees. “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom.”

*****

Mycroft, fully focused on the MI6 report on his screen, winces when a heavy head is placed on his thigh. He looks down and meets two soulful, dark-brown eyes. “Now how did you learn to open the door, hm?” He smiles and reaches out to gently stroke soft fur and lift a delicate floppy ear.

Cherry just grunts and puts a paw on his knee.

“Clever girl, you are. The babies all still outside?” He wouldn’t be very surprised if she answered him.

Two dogs they had wanted to get in the shelter. And then they had seen them – a family of a mother and three puppies, about six months old. Abandoned in a carton.

Mycroft remembers Sherlock's tightened jaws and how he had thought that if Sherlock got hold of the heartless bastard who had done this, it wouldn’t be the person’s lucky day. The last day would have been more likely, and he shares the sentiment.

He had considered reminding Sherlock of the fact that neither of them had ever had a dog and that the little ones would need lots of attention, but the mother, a knee-high beauty with poodle- and spaniel roots as it seemed, had looked at him with this certain look that only dogs could pull off, and he had smiled and said, much to Sherlock's pleasure, _“Yes. Let’s take them all.”_

And it had been a marvellous decision. Mummy Cherry took care of the puppies’ education and they refrain from turning the house into a mess. And the two girls Peach and Apple and the only boy, Plum, are a joy to be around. All looking very different, they also have very different characters but they are all adorable. Sherlock often takes them for long jogs around the property. It is too cold to swim for the humans but the dogs love to jump into the lake, annoying the ducks and playing with each other. They sleep on two large, thick pillows in the living room, cuddled up together. They have been with the Holmes men for three months now and neither of the brothers can imagine a life without them anymore.

In the mornings, Mycroft feeds them before he lets them into the garden and takes care of his work. The distant barking of the playing dogs doesn’t disturb him at all. He is very good at blanking any noises out when he works.

“You need anything?” he asks Cherry but he feels she only wants his company. So he turns back to his report while his hand is stroking her head and back, and he thinks he can get used to her company.

Sometimes he cheated. Sometime he sneaked into the office to check his emails during the day. When Sherlock caught him a few days ago, he looked at him sternly, and Mycroft, feeling guilty, explained to him that he had a bad feeling about a possible threat, and Sherlock told him that this was about to have consequences, and then he sat down with him and they figured it out together. Afterwards he received his punishment in the form of merciless tickling, and it ended with them landing on the floor, both giggling and Sherlock holding his cheek where Mycroft had involuntarily hit him with his elbow, and then four dogs were all over them and it was a delicious chaos full of wet kisses, busy tails and laughter.

When everyone had calmed down, Sherlock told him that there was absolutely no problem with him doing some work at any given time of the day, and Mycroft felt a bit silly. They have erased the heavy problems of their early relationship after all. He never calls anyone. Nobody can reach him when his laptop is off, and the same goes for Sherlock. None of them works himself into the ground anymore. Or gets into dangerous trouble. They have the best of two worlds – they can still be themselves but without the downsides of stress, pressure and any kind of threat. Sometimes Mycroft does receive emails from the PM that sound petulant to say the least. He answers them politely and without showing how much he despises this man.

They very rarely row and never in a serious way. Sometimes Sherlock is grumpy and therefore snappish in the morning, or he wakes Mycroft up when he comes to bed so Mycroft complains. They do sulk sometimes. But never for long. Without having agreed on this, they never fall asleep with a grudge. So when Sherlock has accidentally pushed against him when lying down, he uses to grab him and mumble a sorry. He also says sorry for behaving like a diva after snapping at Mycroft for being supposed to do some chores after reluctantly getting up in the morning. Mycroft apologises, too, if it is necessary or not, and they usually end up in a pile on the sofa if they are not in bed in the first place.

It works. It works so much better than Mycroft had even dared hope for. He assumes that Sherlock does miss his old life in some ways, especially being with John Watson, but he never mentions it. He does tell Mycroft about the news he gets from the people he has left behind. Mycroft knows that John is seeing a woman and that it is serious. That Molly is still single. That Mrs Hudson has given Sherlock's old flat to a lesbian couple.

Sometimes Mycroft can sense that Sherlock is a bit melancholic; he often plays the violin then. These moods never last long. Mycroft would always do something nice for his brother then – bake biscuits, make pasta with spicy tomato sauce or find him an exciting puzzle in the internet. And Sherlock would always give him a grateful look and squeeze him tight, and usually they end up making love. It is a life that he wouldn’t have been able to imagine in those days before they got together but he wouldn’t change it for anything, and he knows that neither would Sherlock. They are together, they are free, they live in a place that is as close to paradise as Mycroft can imagine it, and they are the dads of four exceptionally lovely dogs, and there is nothing else Mycroft could wish for.

Now he shuts down his computer after sending off the files to Anthea, and looks at Cherry, who is still cuddled against his leg. “Well, Miss. Shall we see if your children are back in the house and if His Majesty is ready to get up?” He doesn’t hear the dogs out there anymore.

Cherry waggles her tail and leads the way as if she had understood – which she probably did. And two minutes later Mycroft reaches the bedroom, sees that the door is open and puts his hand onto his mouth to stifle his laughter when he has entered the room. Sherlock is still sleeping, lying on his stomach, snoring quietly, and there are three dogs draped over several parts of his body, also sleeping peacefully – one of them, the black- and brown Apple, snoring louder than Sherlock.

He could have watched them forever. This is what they have given up almost their entire old lives for, and Mycroft doesn’t regret it one bit.

*****

“You have a devilish tongue, brother mine,” Sherlock brings out somehow, his eyes rolling in pleasure, and someone had obviously set his groin on fire. Well, not _someone_.

Mycroft sucks him even harder, hollowing his cheeks, just because he can, and he winks at Sherlock most cheekily.

It is almost too much to bear and Sherlock can already feel his climax nearing in high speed. With the last of his resort, he pushes his brother back so that his cock glides out of his mouth. “Not like this, dear brother,” he rumbles, and Mycroft licks his swollen lips, wet from saliva and Sherlock's pre-seminal fluids.

“And how, pray tell, do you want it?” He laughs when he finds himself on his back. “Oh, I see. My big bad pirate is keen on entering the ship.”

Sherlock giggles and reaches for the lubricant on the bed stand. “Your punishment for waking me in the middle of the night.”

“It’s half past nine,” Mycroft says indulgently, reaching for a pillow to put under his arse.

“Like I'm saying.” Sherlock coats his fingers with a generous amount of sticky fluid and deftly works them into his brother's opening. He hopes that the dogs won't come in – he doesn’t want to shock the poor things. But Cherry seems to have a sixth sense for the times in which her and her fluffy offspring’s presence is rather inconvenient. If they do come in, they will probably cover their eyes with their paws. Sherlock chuckles at the image.

“What's so funny?” Mycroft asks and then forgets the question when Sherlock rubs his prostate. “Oh, yes, right there.”

“If I still didn’t know where your hot spot is, I'd be a pathetic lover.”

“Which you are decidedly not.”

Sherlock grins and then he lines up and works the engorged head of his cock into his brother. They have sex so often – both taking and giving in equal measures – that there is not much resistance to overcome.

One year. Today it's one year ago that they have come here, and Sherlock has not regretted this decision for a single moment. They even had their unceremonious wedding. It included serious, heartfelt vows to be there for one another until the world ends, spoken in a not that serious tone. The only guests were their lovely dogs. The wedding night was a feast of fucking. Like most nights, actually. With his sexy big brother, every night is a wedding night.

They have arrived. They have healed their relationship, and they have healed each other and themselves. Sherlock still bears and will always bear the scars of a life that almost seems like a weird dream now. He doesn’t miss the thrill of the chase. The game is still on every time he hears from Greg. He still loves puzzles. But he has lost this desperate urge to always having to occupy his brain. Perhaps it's the fact that he runs so much, accompanied by the dogs and sometimes by Mycroft, too. If his brother stays at home, Cherry will stay, too, showing her loyalty to her older owner and the deep trust in Sherlock to take care of her grown-up pups. He also regularly works out in the gym that Mycroft has made in a large room on the ground floor. There are weights and a treadmill and even a punching bag. Both of them are in better shape than ever. They eat well and regularly, mostly vegetarian. Neither of them touches a cigarette anymore. They do have the occasional drink but Mycroft has become rather addicted to almond milk and says he prefers it over the best whiskey on any given day. Of course there are no drugs. Even if Sherlock was so inclined – he would never get them in their secluded part of the country. And he doesn’t crave them anyway – he has everything he needs right here. His brain is occupied by the cases, reading, even doing crosswords. And Mycroft, of course. Who could ask for an intellectually more stimulating companion? They don't have sex all the time after all. They talk. A lot. And they hardly ever argue.

They have called their parents a few times – separately, of course. They are doing well, and Sherlock supposes they are not that unhappy about not seeing them anymore. Mycroft wants to visit them for Christmas and Sherlock thinks they might do this. Perhaps he will even return to London for a day. Why not? He thinks Mycroft would be fine with it. If not, he won't do it. It's as easy as this. He would like to say hello to his friends but if it doesn't happen, it's okay as well. He has always been a loner. And now he is part of a couple. And a dad, too – for the best behaved children one could wish for. Their dogs are the best.

He does miss John. And Rosie. And Mrs Hudson. It is like a little burn in his soul. But the burn for the man he right now has sex with is so much stronger. Means so much more. He can live without London, the big city. The cabs, the thrill of the chase. He can live without those people who have accompanied him along the way. But he can never live without Mycroft.

He lowers his head to kiss his brother, and Mycroft responds passionately. His arms are slung around Sherlock's neck. He produces quiet, mewling noises, and his large cock is pushing against Sherlock's stomach at every deep thrust.

Sherlock is balls deep in him when he stills. Mycroft opens his eyes as if to ask why the hell he is stopping. But then he sees the look in Sherlock's eyes – pure and deep adoration – and smiles.

“Hello, husband,” he says, rubbing Sherlock's back, and his voice and look are full of love. This is the man who said two years ago that he didn’t think that his heart was much of a target. What a huge untruth this has been.

“Hello, husband mine,” Sherlock answers, pulling halfway out just to slowly, slowly sliding in again, making Mycroft utter a very undignified noise. “I love you,” Sherlock says, grinning.

“What a coincidence,” Mycroft croaks. “I love you, too.”

“You know what we say about coincidences?”

“I do.” Mycroft smiles and Sherlock kisses him, thinking that this feels much more like destiny than like a coincidence.

He doesn’t speak it loud but he doesn’t have to. His man knows him very well and his smile when they part to breath shows that he has deduced Sherlock's thoughts – and shares them.

Their love might be forbidden but it is an inevitability. They were made for each other and nobody else. Two strange men, too intelligent and special for the rest of the world. They had to be born into the same family to make sure they’d find each other. And thank God, they didn’t let each other go when things were rough. They aren’t anymore. There were mutual hurt and recklessness and resentments. _Now there are rainbows and roses and perhaps even unicorns_ , he thinks with a grin.

Sherlock picks up the pace and fucks his man in earnest now, eager to push him over the edge. Later he wants to go to the lake with him and their bunch of four-legged kids, have a picnic on this warm summer day. Now he just wants to make him happy in the most primal way.

They come in quick succession. Sherlock buries his face in the crook of Mycroft's neck when he spills deep inside of him. Mycroft's sperm has shot against Sherlock's stomach and Sherlock wonders if they will be literally glued together if they stay like this long enough. This is an experiment he would like to make.

This is it. Their love. Their life. Their marriage documents may be fakes – even though with their false identities, they would have been able to get married for real. But they don't need someone else to tell them that they are husband and husband now. They share a loving, devoted relationship with each other after leaving their old lives behind. A relationship full of passion and respect which makes the unimportant sacrifices that they had to make to be able to be together like this forgettable. A beautiful, adult relationship – difficult no longer.

💙 The End 🐶

  
  



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